


The crawling Chaos

by AlecdeNocturna



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 22:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18860353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlecdeNocturna/pseuds/AlecdeNocturna
Summary: So, this is going to get weird really fast.I don't even know where this came from, but it needed out and out it came over the last few days at work.My feelings tell me, that it wanted to be shared with you.Maybe a part of the holy madness of my king with the thousand faces may have touched me, at least a little bit.I hope you enjoy this little trip into some of the darker corners of my mind.





	The crawling Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is going to get weird really fast.
> 
> I don't even know where this came from, but it needed out and out it came over the last few days at work. 
> 
> My feelings tell me, that it wanted to be shared with you.   
> Maybe a part of the holy madness of my king with the thousand faces may have touched me, at least a little bit.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little trip into some of the darker corners of my mind.

It was dark outside, as it happened.  
Electric green lightning shot in short bursts through the picturesque small house followed by silence where there were screams and pleading before. The cold October wind blew into the house through the open door that lay blasted to pieces in the front part of the house.

Cold high laughter mixed with the howling wind, as the Dark Lord strode up to the little boy shivering in his crib.  
“Sssuch a sssmall little thing" he hissed thoughtfully.  
But it couldn't be helped. The child needed to die. He had heard the prophecy and there was no way around it. The child’s life or his. And he would choose himself every time, over and over again if need be. Slowly, oh so slowly he raised his pale wand and pointed it at the still child.

"Goodbye, little Harry Potter."

The words of the infamous killing curse formed on his lips. His will reached out and with just a whisper of “Avada Kedavra” pale sickening green light shot out of his clawed wand.  
The light covered the child. But instead of severing his life thread, instead of separating his soul from his earthly bindings, the light flickered around the boys head, like a deathly halo. The curse glittered on the child’s pale skin and little flecks of pale green began to build up in his darker green eyes. 

Never in all this did the curse disconnect from Voldemort’s wand. The spell drew on his magic like a leaking faucet and pulled every last ounce of magic out of him and into the child before him. The steady stream of magic began to weaken his snakelike body and his knees buckled under his own weight, as they could not support him any longer. Desperately he tried to stop the flow of magic, to wrench his wand away from the child, to severe the curse. But it was all for naught. He could not stop it, not even to save his own life. The spell scraped the bottom of his magical reservoir and as it could not find more magic in his core, it to the next best thing, his soul. His mangled, torn to pieces little sad excuse of a soul. Before this night there was little to begin with, but now…

His magic tucked at the little piece, that was left to him and he could feel the pain in his whole being. Cutting up his soul had hurt, but never that much. A terrified scream clawed it’s way up his throat and wrenched itself out of his nearly non-existing lips. The fragile piece broke at last under the pressure and snapped in half. One half was swept up in the torrent of magic that flowed into the little boy. The other remained in the shrivelled body, that looked more like an ancient mummy than a living being. 

The little child blinked once, then again and then it was over. Like this. The flow of magic from Voldemort stopped abruptly. The backlash felt like a minor explosion and blasted him a few metres back against the nearest wall. His frail body crumbled against the light blue wall and broke. It had no substance left that could sustain his meager life force, that the spell left him with. On impact, his body just gave up. Bones shattered like brittle glass and flesh crumbled of them like rotten meat. In less than ten seconds his once proud body was gone. Only his robes and his pale clawed wand lay there, a sign of defeat. What was left of his soul, a mangled gnarled spirit, more smoke and mist, hovered with a banshee-like wail over his remains. 

The child looked at it with now completely pale green eyes that glowed in the dark like the killing curse. He cocked his head to the side and blinked again. There was a frightening intelligence in those eyes. More than any one year old should have. 

With a wail of indescribable terror, the wraith fled through the wall and out in the night. He would never be able to tell anybody, what he had seen in those eyes, that frightened him to his core. Maybe because nobody would have listened or because that what he had seen could not be described. It was older than humanity, grander than the universe and more than any sane mind to hold. For an infinitely small moment, he had looked upon the face of something that was more than heaven and hell, more than mere angles and demons, even more than god. It was old, older than old but also young, like the body it inhabited. It was all and nothing. It was like a mountain that walked, like the speed of teetering stars on the edge of the universe, like the gulf of shrieking nothingness between galaxies. It was the abyss that stared back and like the childish wonder and love of a little kid. It was the madness that lurked behind every face and the thin veneer of humanity; it was everything and nothing at all. And it had his magic and a part of his soul. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The angry red runes, carved into the flesh of the wailing baby, stood in stark contrast to his otherwise fair skin. It was a sweltering night in the middle of August, far away from any traditional magical holiday or celebratory day. The heat had even overtaken the dreary British Isles and made the people quite uncomfortable. Two of those people stood under a moonless sky, clothed in nothing but their own flesh and skin. The male was holding a bloody small knifelike dagger in his right hand and the female was chanting softly under her breath. 

The body of the small baby was covered from head to his little toes in small wounds that showed runes and other arcane symbols. With the last one in place, the man took a step back and began to fall into the chant of his wife. Together they stood under the evermore darkening sky. One after another the little white stars blinked out of existence and darkness swept from the heavens onto the earth. With it came the shivering sensation of something other. None of the two could put their fingers on it, but both knew that it was wrong. Worse than black magic, worse than anything they fought against. But what could they do?  
The Dark Lord had targeted their family, wanted their child, their little boy and heir dead. They had to do something, anything that could help to protect their child. Nothing was to obscure, to forbidden. Nothing.  
They had steeled their resolve and had undertaken this little ritual. It was nothing big. Not even too taxing on their magic. Only their hearts and souls bled with their child, as they carved him up. Every cut was a cut into their flesh to. Every symbol carved onto him carved itself onto their souls too. They became the path to his door, the life, which would protect him.

As the last star above them winked out of existence, they waited with bated breath for something. But there was no explosion, no big bang, not even an alien spaceship, there was nothing. They nothing of space, that swept downwards upon this earth. The space above them seemed to condense into pure darkness dripping down unto the little boy, soaking him in its essence. The longer they looked, the more and less they saw. Colours not from this light spectrum, violets that were nearly green, blues so light, they showed yellow and reds so vivid they saw only white. Next came the sounds or no sounds at all. A silence so deep, it drummed and echoed in their ears, torn up with shrieks and howls and nothing. A smell of cool ozone, of rotting flesh, of exploding stars lingered in the air afterwards. And then it was over. 

The stars blinked again into being, the night sky nearly blinding in its brightness. The little boy did not cry anymore. He lay still like a corpse in the ritual circle. His wounds gone, like they were never there to begin with. His face still streaked with tear marks but his eyes shone with an unearthly quality to them. The parents shivered as they looked upon their child and asked themselves if they had not made a mistake. To invite something so foreign into this world was a sacrilege, that none had done before. But the two were desperate.  
The woman scooped the little boy up in her arms. For one tiny moment, less than even a second, she felt, as if she had taken a squirming fleshy mound of slime and viscous, that smelled like something rotten and decomposed and would ooze right out of her arms again. But as fast as the moment came it was over and she held her precious little son in her arms. 

The child looked up at his mother and smiled as only a little child could. He gurgled and giggled a little bit, as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, where they had carved runes of protection into his skin that were not there any longer. But she could feel the power of the symbols crawling under his skin, working their magic into his very being. Nothing would take their little boy from this world. Not even Voldemort.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He touched the little cat and her body bloomed before him. Springing open like a flower bud, opening its petals dripping with honeyed liquid. He felt the still warm texture of soft flesh underneath his fingers, the wetness only enhancing the feeling of soft exploration. Muscles and sinew were like the slightly raised capillary of the petals. Instead of pollen stems, he found balloons filled with liquid, sloshing around when he squeezed them. He pricked his thumb on one of the broken bones that protected the flowery innards like pale thorns. Something had to be said about the picture of the small animal that lay open after just one touch of the boy's hand on its flesh. Nothing could compare to the curious exploration of the inner workings of creatures of flesh and bone. He liked to watch the beating of their hearts and the rushing of their blood in their opened veins. How beautiful it looked.

But after a while, the small ones were not enough. He took to wandering the streets, looking for something more. Not even bigger ones, just something different. He had tried his little trick on humans and it was novel the first few times, but soon enough he saw, that the inner workings did not differ that much. So he looked for something else. Something to satiate his curiosity. An idle mind is the devil’s playground, his aunt used to say. At that time she did not know, that he could understand her. He was three years old, when they decided, that he should earn his keep. Three years and he would be ordered to cook, wash, clean and do all the dirty things, the Dursley’s did not want to do. It was interesting, at first. He had not worked before, how could he as such a small child. He did not know what working would entail. Pained muscles, bruised skin and ringing ears. Not what he imagined, not from the television or from books or from stories. But he did not know for sure, so he endured. And why not? It wasn't as if he could not heal himself or mend his broken flesh and bones with just a thought. He could even deter them from hurting him if he was in the mood. But he wanted to know, how far they would go. In his mind, those years were an experiment. An experiment that he ended on his sixth birthday. Three years of servitude, of slavery, of pain and blood. It would have gone on, if not for that one day in a sweltering summer heat. Uncle had just beaten him again for his tardiness and had kicked him into the garden for, well gardening. Aunt’s watchful eyes were trained on his small form in ill-fitting clothes from the back porch. Uncle sounded like an old steam train, huffing and puffing on and on about his freakishness, his silence, his not-normalness. On and on. Ideas were exchanged, ideas of more punishment, of abandonment, of orphanages, of money, of anything to get rid of him. Aunt was afraid, afraid of him, afraid of the consequences of his world. He had always known that his parents belonged to a different world, but now he heard it from his aunt's own lips. She talked about old men, with big hats and long robes, silly costumes and scary spells. They did not think, that he could hear them. But he did. And he was bored. Bored with their petty fear, bored of this life, that was not his, could not be all. This was not why he had been protected and infused with that part of him from outside. The colours danced before his eyes and the shrieking laughter filled his ears. It was enough. Enough of it all. This needed to end, now. No more experiment. No more. His outside wanted more and he agreed. How could he not, his outside was him, had always been him, since he had it, even before. He was it, and it was him. Nothing more and nothing less. And so he stood from his little place in the burning sun and brought the heat with him to them. Not fury or wrath, only an effective method of getting rid of them. Uncle blackened under his gaze, without words or screams, just crumbling to ash. Aunt followed him. Cousin to. The warm summer wind blew the ashes away, far away. Intellectual he knew that he needed the house, as a place of residence, as a home. With a blink of his killing green eyes and a spark of his will, three facsimiles kneeled before him. Simple puppets, waiting to be filled with him. Black liquid frothed up from within him, spilling out of his mouth and over his chin. Quickly he grabbed the chin of each body and opened their mouths. The black foul smelling tar dripped slowly into their waiting open maws. He didn’t need to tell them to swallow, it was instinct for them. Satiated on his essence, their eyes blinked open with a simple intelligence in them. They would serve him as caretakers and alibies for the world. And he could experiment more.

And experiment he did. He tried to fine-tune his control and soon the bodies did not flower immediately after he touched them. He tried to only work one of his fingers in and began to tuck on all the different sinews he found. His little friends began to dance so prettily for him, like puppets on strings.  
Next, he tried the nerves. He found, that it worked best with humans because they would scream so high when he opened them. He tried to numb the nerves and opened just a little bit on their arms, first the hands and then so on. After a while even that became boring. He knew which nerve to numb, to pluck and where to push for all the different sounds to spill out of their mouths. No, that was not correct, not all the sounds. 

After he had stumbled upon a pair in a dirty back alley, he wanted them to make the sound, he had heard there. Sound of pleasure that nearly sounded like pain. First, he tried with the obvious choice, their cocks and cunts and breasts. But that was not the best or even the fastest way. And they broke to fast. In one of his explorations, he followed the nerves up through their bodies, slinking up their spine and into their brains. In there he could do nothing, too many small nerves entangled together for his fingers. But at their spine, well that was another story. He searched for the right nerves and began to squeeze them, to pluck at them like little guitar strings. And after some time he heard those sounds. Their bodies jerked under his hands, they made quite a mess of themselves. But now he could just plunge his hands into their necks and they would dance for him. Shivering messes lay at his feet. If they lived, they came back. Sought him out, like a drug. The addicts crawled at his feet, gave him anything he would ask of them, just for one touch of his tiny hand. Nothing could compare to the electricity that shot through their nerves into their cores. That made them wet and cumming in an instance, that held them on the edge for days, if he wanted to play with them or that had them cuming for the same amount of time, if they were good and did, what he asked. 

His house became filled with his little addicts. His three puppets still did their duty, they cared for the child, everybody saw. The cleaned the house and they cooked for his guests. And his guests, they amused him so terribly. Some of them simply swapped one addiction for another. He had collected them in small back alleys, at the train station, in the park. Then there were the desperate ones, the lost ones. Those he had taken from bordellos, women and men to. Some of those were like him, slaves to others and some were the slave keepers, the ones that paid. But those were also addicts, only for another kind of drug. Then he had found some special cases of the lost ones, those who wore leather and had bruises they loved and cherished. Them he showed a more potent way to get, what they wanted. Those were addicts too. And he was the ultimate hit. More pain then pleasure and that was exactly more pleasure for them.

But those men and women, all of them, would not last long. They were fragile and burned too hot and too fast. Some, the sick ones, only lasted a few days, the others only a month or two. But he had fun with them. They gave him money, jewels, work. They changed his house into something unrecognizable from before. Catering to his guests and his own aesthetic pleasures. A little turret jutted out into the garden. There was his domain. A dark room without windows, without light and only the tars would shine into it from the ceiling. There he could see where his outsider came from and where he would go again after his body crumbled to dust. But that was a long time away, longer than anybody would guess. His parents had been thorough. His body had been toughened to hold him and his outsider. In his little tower, there also was his room, his normal room with a bed and everything a normal human being had in its room. 

His guests had their own rooms in the changed house. One for each of them. One of his very special guests had made it, that all would fit into the not so large house.  
His very special guest, they were different and mostly like his parents. He had found one of them, a man, wandering the streets and after bumping into him, shaking his hands vigorously and thanking him for vanquishing He-who-must-not-be-named. The boy thought back on that event, nearly ten years ago and had hugged the overwhelmed man. After that, he became his guest to. The wizard brought more people of his kind to the boy. A woman next, with kind eyes and an easy smile. After that came a very proper and posh kind of man with an air of importance and crumbled dreams about him. After the boy asked him for secrets he came with a small creature and an invisible young man. The tiny creature wailed and sobbed as he took the man and his son in. But the boy had no use for such a creature. He had all the help he needed and the little thing was not made for him. It was twisted even beyond what he could do to things. Twisted through old magic and time, twisted from its once proud form and stature to a little thing that served and slaved on the whim of its masters. He did the only thing that made sense to him and that he saw as a mercy. He killed it quickly and buried it in his garden, under his rosebushes. The man, he found out very quickly, was boring. But his son, well he was insane. He could even show him some of the face of his outsider and Barty, as was the name of the young man, only moaned harder. Barty told him all about the late Dark Lord, the secret world of the wizards of Britain and the school he was destined to go to. Barty showed him his magic, what he had learned from his master and what he had been taught at school. He was his first teacher. More insane than the others, but saner because of it. The young boy had found out that the magical people would last longer. They were as susceptible as any of the others, but they would last longer under his care. They were also not as fast in their addiction, maybe the magic in their blood tempered his manipulation of their bodies somewhat. 

Barty told him about his friends, the Death Eaters, that still roamed the land and the ones that were locked up in Azkaban, the wizarding prison.  
And so the boy decided that he would want to look at them. Those tainted by dark magic felt even better under his hands than the other ones. He could feel his own nerves singing when he plucked at Bartys. His own magic wrapped around the young man and would sooth his quivering body. It was as if it recognized something of itself in the man or in the lovely tattoo on his forearm. 

Barty took him to some of his old friends. Friends that were shocked to see him alive. Apparently, Barty had died in prison. It had all been his sick mother’s idea, swap her for him and let her die in prison whilst her son would live. And so Barty explained over and over to each of his old friends he found. And he introduced them to his little saviour and new master. The boy did not take all of them as guests. He did not take the blond man and his family. That was one of his no-goes: you do not take families as guests. You leave them alone and whole, one of his only rules. Barty wrangled a binding promise of silence out of the man and his family. And so he left them in awe and fear. Next came some people he simply did not care for. They were boring bigoted old arseholes. Some of them hated everything other with a burning hellfire. Those he showed a glimpse of his outsider and they screamed, thinly high wailing sounds akin to whale songs. Beautiful in their own twisted ways. Barty showed him the island with the prison on top. It was cold, rainy and were he just a little bit more human and had less of his outsider in him, he would have shivered. Barty could and would not go with him. He was afraid that the prison and its guards would never let him go again. But the boy was not afraid. His outsider was stranger than anything on this world. So he greeted his first Dementor even before he set foot into Hogwarts. 

Instinctively his outsider recognized their form and shape. They were leftovers of his kin from aeons ago. Shrivelled husks of wisps from the cloak of the King. Their once sickly yellow colour had dulled to a dark stained brown and was coated in a slick black tarlike viscous liquid. Their bodies permanently decomposing and reabsorbing their own matter, a trick the King had learned from his cousin and some other creations that roamed the earth ages ago. He had imbued his tattered rags with the same quality and they still lived for it. Moaning, wailing and rasping their greetings and praises upon his outsider, their better, they showed him the prison. There he found three more with lovely tattoos, a dark witch even crazier than his teacher. She glimpsed more than Barty ever had and she laughed at his thousand faces. She reminded him of an ancient champion of his, a black king in the ancient world, building labyrinths in his name and ruling over the known world with fear and darkness and madness. He took her out and showed her his gift. After that, she became his second teacher. He also took her husband and his brother so she would not be lonely. 

A black dog that looked vaguely familiar he left in there. He had no patience for pets.  
After his little visit to the island, he reacquainted the giggling Bellatrix with Barty and a warm feeling crawled in his little heart after he saw the happy tears his first teacher cried. 

His heart was nearly the only thing still human. His outsider had seeped into his mind and soul, made it so alien that even the little broken shard of Voldemort had found no footing in him. His body slowly turned and twisted with time to match his mind and soul. At some point, he would show the runes carved into him. At some point he would have the abilities his outsider whispered about, changing his face, his shape, growing limbs where none should be, becoming something more. But for now, the change was slow. He would not rush his body, because he liked it actually. The slowness of it all, the exquisite feeling of the drag of blood in his veins, the twisting of his flesh and muscles. He would have time to become on the outside what he was on the inside. His outsider told him that then he would not be able to live like a human anymore. Maybe then he could even visit the kin of his outsider between the yawning gulfs of the stars and underneath the cold howling winds that brought the high music of pipes with them. Until then he would wait and enjoy his earthly trappings. 

The last guest that Barty brought to him, was a tall man with a hooked nose and stringy black hair. Pasty skin and dark eyes. Those black eyes surveyed his little house and his guests. Bella was trying to mimic his experiments on a freshly opened body in the dining room. Rodolphus and Rabastan were arguing about the next meal and Barty was closing the front door. He had been the one to go out and fetch their new guest.  
With a dramatic flourish, he introduced the man to them.

“Tada, one Severus Snape. As promised master.” He still called him that, even after months and months living together. But his outsider liked it, so he never corrected him.  
As he greeted his new guest, the man's knees nearly buckled under his voice. His outsider crept more and more in and so his voice sounded dissonant with thousand other voices underneath that wailed and shrieked. It sounded like screaming over an ocean of rusted nails on chalkboard and the clinking of hooked chains in a dungeon. 

His killing curse green eyes looked into the black pools before him and he saw. He saw everything of the man before him: his guilt, his love, his anger, his yearnings, his hatred. And he let him see in return. The black grew larger and larger, stark against the white around. His outsider giggled madly at the stunned look on the man’s face. He heard the breaking of his mind like the twinkling of a silver bell, clear and high. The hopes, Severus had clung to the last ten years, washed crashed around his feet as he was standing in the black abyss that not only looked back but had swallowed him whole. But he did not fear, against all his preconceived notions and all his knowledge, he did not fear the abyss. Why should he? As he was standing and felt it lapping at his feet, he knew that the darkness around him was divine. A piece of something far greater than any human could grasp. The vastness was nothing to fear, at least not for a broken mind. Any normal human would despair at the churning and squirming waves of nothing around him, standing at the cliff and at the bottom at once. Blinking up and down, seeing everything in nothing. The vast ocean of blackened darkness, filled with colours he could not even name, was balm for his newly cracked mind. In it he found serenity, like a boat on rocking waves, sailing him to the safe shores. He knew that he chuckled, spit running along his chin, giggling madly at the world and himself in it. He had searched so long for meaning and now he knew how insane that was. Wheezing and nearly choking on the sounds that wrenched themselves from his throat, he stumbled to his feet. 

The boy had not even touched him and he was devoted to his new demented god, to the jester of the universe, the messenger and the soul of them all. A thousand faces stared down at him and a thousand voices welcomed him home. And he stayed. School be damned, contracts be damned. He did not need them, did not even want them. He was satisfied with teaching the boy all he knew, even as he knew in his heart that the child did not even need it. His magic was so much more than anybody could even imagine. Stars shimmered at his fingertips, waiting to be borne on a whim of their master and to be snuffed out again. Colours trailed after every step he took, painting the floor in insane colours and hues. Shining in every gesture and movement of his limbs. The boy did not need teachers, but he adored them nonetheless. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

And so time went on. The little boy grew up inside his little crooked house with all his little crooked guests. The normal ones often did not stay as long, but still new ones came all the time. News from the hidden world of magic travelled even to his little hidden corner and they heard about missing people, some of his own guests now, of the rising of terror, a shadow looming over the land, an insane Dark Lord returned, of the sacrifice of a family of redheads for his resurrection, parents and kids, all of them, of the closing of the best magical school in all of Britain, only whispers of a renewed Dark Lord after that, one that was more powerful than even before his fall. 

His teachers screamed and writhed in agony on that day. He had never thought to do something about their lovely tattoos, but now he needed to act. His magic curled around their forearms, enveloping them in a sheen of oily shimmering green hues. His magic pulsed with the strong current of suction that the Dark Lord had initiated on their marks. He wanted to replenish his own depleted and still not entirely regenerated magic from his own disobedient followers, but the boy was stronger. His outsider latched cackling onto the stream of magic and began to redirect it back into his guests. Essentially he dammed the flow in and after a rather short tug-of-war over the four wizards and one witch, the boy won.

He knew that the Dark Lord recognized his once own, now twisted magic and that he would not trouble them again. And he was right.

The newly established terror reign over the British magical community lasted for over ten years. The boy had grown up and still lived with his guests in his little slice of heaven. The people around them became so desperate for safety or meaning in their lives, that they had more and more flocking to their home. His little guest program had spawned a near fanatical cult of followers and devotees. They even had to buy the surrounding houses and restructure them to host all the people. His outsider purred in the darkest corners of his mind and became ever stronger through all the worship heaved upon him. Worship and dedication fuelled him and the boy, now a young man did understand why gods needed people who prayed to them and sacrificed for them. 

Voldemort had an iron reign over his land, but unrest brewed in the deep recesses of the populous. That and their foreign neighbours did not look too kindly on his terror regime. It was at this time that the young man learned from his teacher about a prophecy, made before his birth. About the one, with the power, the dark lord knows not, marked as his equal. At this moment the young man knew that he was the only one capable to slay the Dark Lord. His magic had come from Voldemort and he was there for the only one, who could overcome the defences the Dark Lord had erected around himself. 

In one dark night, the young man stepped out of the shadowy corner in the bedroom of the Dark Lord. His grin was like an open wound, shark-like and bloody, as he saw all the angles in the room. Apparently, the knowledge of the hounds was lost to humanity and he would not remind them about their mistake. A soft whistle from his thin lips summoned a frenzied lean, near skeletal mass out of one corner angle. Growling and shuffling the beast moved near him and waited for his command, as his outsider was also known as the master of beasts. Acidic ichor drooled on the rich wooden floor, as the hound's hunger twisted in an eager vibrating knot. 

He did not speak a word, as he gestured to the bed and its sleeping occupant. The hound, hungry beyond earthly measure, jumped on the luxurious sheets and began to tear into the man. Ripping his chunks of his soul out of his flesh, rendering the flesh from his bones and cracking the bones under strong deformed jaws, always a little too wide and crooked. Blood and other viscera painted the room in dark and dripping colours. The odour of a freshly opened body hung copper thick and suffocation in the air. The magic of the now dead Lord Voldemort hovered in the air above his gruesome mangled corpse. It recognized the young man before it as the holder of a fair share of itself, so it decided to reunite itself with its rest and plunged into the young man. Rocking back from the impact of the glowing orb of magic, he found his footing again and could now feel the strings and tugs of all the marks and tattoos the late Dark Lord had gifted unto his followers. 

With a twisting smile, he grabbed all those glowing strings and imposed his own will on the picture. The skull and snake bubbled onto the skin of the men and women adorned with it. It looked like they had burned themselves with hot water or something similar. Rising out of the red angry skin was a twisting mass of something, nobody could look to long at. A grinning yawning gaping maw, bat wings, a three-lobed burning eye, twisting tentacles. His outsider chuckled madly at their newfound status as a leader of not one but two cults. It was exactly the starting point of the end, he whispered in his mind. Now the change could begin in earnest. He would show them the way to become like his kin and they would open the doors, together. Until then, Harry Potter had much to do.


End file.
